


Jurisdiction

by wickedrum



Category: Halt and Catch Fire
Genre: Angst, Clinical Depression, Emetophilia, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, fathers, physical signs of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3907378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedrum/pseuds/wickedrum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe's father eventually tracks him down after his disappearance from Cardiff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ferret

**Author's Note:**

> Notes (lots of them!): I think people might object that possibly Joe would not act this way. For that reason, I would like to point out that if you look at the population of white, business oriented, otherwise successful men in between the ages of 25 and 49, you'll find that successful suicide without much warning is the biggest killer statistically in that subgroup. Yes, you read that well, above road accidents, cancer or heart related deaths. And I don't even have him that deep in depression in this one, though it's pretty close.
> 
> Dedicated to the person (who shall not be named cause they probably don’t want to be named) who wanted caring Joe Sr.!fics. Prompt was as follows: Joe to be taken care of his father after everyone else discards him.
> 
>  
> 
> As for the location of Fiske Observatory, I refer to this post that proves this one is a fictional one, even though it uses the name of a real place: topic/213431-halt-and-catch-fire-1984-oad-8314-spoilers/?p=3277959
> 
> I am aware that (spoilers!) we now know it’s not his mother, but Sara who Joe went to visit at the observatory, but I’ve started writing this thing before knowing that. However, this fic will be finished ahead of the new season so no discrepancies ;)

Disclaimers: Unfortunately I don't own a Lee Pace. Not the original, and not any of his characters. Written for enjoyment only.  
Genre: Angst  
Set: End of season 1.  
Pairing: reference to Cameron/Joe.  
Warning: a little bit of sickness fetish. Emetophilia.  
Mood(LJthrowback): Inquisitive

Joe Macmillan Sr. has never been so far into Utah, nor would he have ever volunteered to find out about Mormon country on his own accord, but the inn looked normal and chain-like enough with its green railings and stone pillars, just off highway 87. The receptionist however, was unnaturally benign and apologetic as he showed the visitor the way to the lodger's room. Apparently Joe’s son had caused a fair bit of trouble for the staff, such as cleaning maids having to scrub up vomit almost every day, even with being little evidence of Joe eating much or him not letting them clean anything else. 

"We called the paramedics out the day before yesterday, but they wouldn't take him. They said his condition wasn't grave enough, and to call later if it gets so. We were thinking about calling the police, but then again he had paid in advance for two weeks so they would've had no reason to come. I'm really glad you're here though, I had a pretty bad feeling about this situation, just hoping it's not the coroner next. And here we are," the middle aged receptionist in a blue t shirt with the company logo placed a key into a door, not unlike any other door on the level, "are you sure you will manage? He wouldn't talk or react to anything we were doing."

"I'm his father," the older man established tiredly, hoping it will count for something. When the private detective called to tell of the state he had found Joe in, the New York dweller didn't as much as contemplate sending Dale Butler instead of himself. There was a shy chance Joe will accept his help even, never mind some lackey’s.

"Well, good luck," the inn worker left him to his own devices.

Older Joe sighed, then inched in hesitantly. Always a successful businessman whose mere being injected power and presence into a room, family matters have always been different almost from day one. His wife had been wild, non-conformist, never bowing to authority-perhaps why he had been attracted to her spirit. In a post honeymoon days the real world however, their differences created unbridgeable differences and he was left wondering sometimes whether their marital discord was part of the reason she'd turned to drugs. Guilt he'd carried plentiful, for that and for being unable to harbour good relationships outside the business realm-outside the sphere where everyone was busy scurrying to complete what he'd told them. So when the sorry sight of Joe greeted him, the older man paused, congruently puzzled by what he should be doing.

In semi-darkness that didn't take long to get used to, Joe was lying on the bed, on covers that lay in disorganised heaps, with dayclothes on that had been visibly soiled, even under current lighting conditions. His hair was in all angles and sticking to his forehead and pallid face, matted in clumps and his lips were trembling with shaking breaths. The room spoke of similar devastation. There was an overpowering smell of sweat, rotten food and vomit, with bottles of spirits littered about the place, yet not incredibly many for it to be concerning in itself. It didn't even occur to older Joe to blame the situation on alcohol, his son had never turned to drink before as a way of drowning his sorrows.

It wasn't Joe's physical condition that worried him at any case. The chill on his spine went down when he stepped closer and attempted to make eye contact-his son's were empty, unmoving, unfocussed. Not even stepping in his line of vision made the other man acknowledge his father's unannounced presence-something that would've normally riled him to no end and that in itself was frightening. With an ache in his heart, Joe Sr. felt thankful he didn't send Butler once again as nobody should witness what Joe was like in this condition.

"Son?" He finally started, deciding on a course of action, "son, what happened? I know about what you did at Cardiff and I've heard of a new company called Mutiny, but what else? Did you go to the observatory?" The location they were at was a dead give away of course. "Is that where you got so grimy?"

Joe did not give any verbal response or turn his eyes towards him. He curled up and into the mattress a little more and moaned softly, prompting his father to kneel beside the bed apprehensively, drawn, and place a hand on the younger man's visible shoulder, "Joe. What's wrong? Are you sick? If you're sick we need to get you to a doctor," he urged, always a man of action. "Come on. We need to go." His voice sounded somewhat entreating. "You don't need to come back to the company. You don't need to come back to New York. Whatever you want. Just let me help and then I'll let you go carry out your next reckless endeavour, it does not matter right now," he went on rather unhelpfully and cross. He was helpless with Joe, he knew that and it exasperated him. "Talk to me. Are you hurting somewhere?"

The invalid swallowed thickly, giving another barely audible moan and that was enough for Joe Sr. He would not see his son in pain even if he has to drag him out of there physically to achieve it. Getting to his feet in a more agile manner than his age would've indicated, he ventured into the bathroom for a towel as he deemed throwing a glass of water on the younger man rather drastic. One of the flannels was useless, thrown onto the floor on top of a puddle of sick that didn't quite make it into the toilet bowl, but he could wet the other and return with it to Joe and attempt to shake him out his unresponsive state. Sighing shakily, he sat on the side of the bed and started cleaning his son's face as if he would've been a child and yes, what a child he still was. "Damn it Joe, just say something." He grated, exasperated.

If he would've had to guess, he would've said that it was the dripping water that finally got him a reaction. Joe's attention gradually turned towards him. He still didn't say anything, or make eye contact, but from microexpressions it looked like he was taking in what was happening and who was administering to him. "Sit up for me, Joe," the older man tested the theory, placing a hand under the other's neck to facilitate the move, and to his relief Joe indeed shifted and let himself be helped into a sitting position, though stayed withdrawn and leaned his head on his knees.

"We need to get you out of these tatters," his father commented, "do you have any other clothes?" He looked around the room, surveying for the aforementioned items. There was a green backpack turned upside down in the corner, so the greying man rummaged in that, giving up shortly when he realised everything was soggy and saturated with mud. With the terrain being dry everywhere around, he could only think of the nearby lake to be the reason, which made the situation even more puzzling-what had happened to Joe? "I doubt shops in the proximity would have your size," he grumbled, shaking his head. Otherwise he would've stepped out for some. "But first things first," he winced and sat down again on the bed to tug on Joe's sleeve, "jacket off Joe." Then he let go for a moment, realising he was touching dried vomit. "Is your tummy okay?" He leaned close to see under the mess that was Joe's hair, talking as if he would've been to a child.

It was hard to tell whether Joe shook his head a little, but it seemed like it. "When was the last time you had anything that didn't have alcohol in it?" Joe Sr. studied the room once more, but then decided he didn't want to know what those smelly meal remains were on the top of the television set. "Let's get you to feel better," he started to peel off Joe's jacket once more, touching it somewhere else than the puke stains this time. 

To his relief, Joe let himself be handled, albeit slowly, reluctantly, curling into himself in between if it was possible. So the balding man managed to undress him and clean him with the wet towel to some extent, not fancying his chances of standing Joe into the shower with him being quite a lot smaller in stature than his son. Lacking fresh garbs, he finally placed the motel's bathrobe round Joe's shoulders, "I'm going to have to leave you for a bit to get you something to eat and find a store that sells the right clothes. Please stay put," he solicited, frustrated. If Joe got to his senses in his absence, he would disappear again. If he didn't get to his senses, that was bad enough. It was a no win situation.

"I…" Joe started, narrowing his eyes. His breathing sped up and he appeared perplexed when he looked up.

His father stood, patient, only inwardly eager, "Joe. It's going to be alright. Everything will work out fine," he promised, now that he had hope his words were maybe getting through.

"I have a suitcase under the bed. With clothes," Joe supplied evenly, detached.

But it was enough for the older Macmillan to go, "oh thank god. Let's get you out of here," he advocated, not wanting to leave him. Food they could get together, as long as he could keep his eyes on Joe.

Tbc


	2. Consent

"Where are we going?"

It was the first time Joe had shown any interest in his surroundings or the reason for him being moved about, but his father wasn’t so sure if it was a good thing or not. His son might be starting to object to being handled and the elder did not want that just yet, not when they were so far from home or with him so obviously unwell. Nevertheless, he answered the question truthfully-not as if any destination wound sound more desirable to the younger man, than others. “Provo Airport,” he sighed.

“Stop the car.” Joe commanded weightily.

“Joe,” the older man groaned exasperated, “look around you. This is a semi desert with no developments around for miles. Where would you go?”

“Stop…” The other contended through clamped together lips.

“Let me get you to Provo at least,” the wealthy father propounded, “and then we will see what we can agree on,” he tried his best with a son who never wanted his help. 

Joe shook his head and leaned forward, breathing heavily though his nose. “What is it Joe?” His father felt the need to put a hand on his shoulder worriedly. But it was only when his passenger started to gag that the elder understood why he had to stop. Swerving to the curb and slowing down did not take long and yet he was too late-the little fluid that was in Joe’s stomach ended up on his legs. “I’m so sorry,” his father cursed under his breath, “I didn’t understand what you meant.” 

“I couldn’t talk without spewing,” Joe hashed out, fractious. 

“There are some rags in the glove box in front of you,” the other suggested, diffident.

“I need to get out for some fresh air,” the younger man swallowed, taking the offered item with him without further ado. 

Joe Sr. watched him reservedly, at a loss. Yet another mistake he had made in regards to their relationship, another hiccup, not the first, and it will not be the last. He had no idea what else he could do to salvage their rapport either. Of course his parenting or persona had not been perfect, but it wasn’t just that, nothing that he could improve on. There was something in that boy he could never grasp or allure to, the same way it had been with his mother. After a certain point, connecting was impossible. However, with that pain in his heart that gripped him every time he saw the unhappiness in Joe’s eyes, he would never stop trying. In view of that, he stepped out of the car and slowly ambled over to where Joe was leaning on a pole of a mesh fence, seemingly doing nothing much in particular, having finished cleaning himself as much as he could. However small the action, it had been something purposeful at least, an interest he had taken in himself and his cleanliness at last at least. 

“How are you feeling, son?” The greying man ventured, keeping the conversation as neutral and uncomplicated as possible.

“Stupid,” Joe answered nevertheless, “I have burnt some…” He trailed off, snorting at his own word choice. “Some bridges. It’s nothing I can do about it,” he finished flatly. 

“Well,” the older man started, not sure how to proceed. Joe was up and talking, and talking about things that mattered, but the situation wasn’t rosy enough for promises and solutions. So instead, he just asked, “what happened up there?” If that woman did the boy any more harm, he would go after her even if that was the last thing he ever did. 

“She shot at me.”

“He shot at you?” The balding man repeated, incredulous. Thankfully, there were no bullet wounds, he knew that, he had dressed a back then still apathetic Joe.

“She didn’t know who I was. She would not wait till I was close enough to introduce myself. She fired as soon as I was inside the perimeter. I was told she doesn’t honour unannounced visits,” the lost son shrugged.

“And how did you get sick?”

“I’m not sick,” Joe held mechanically. An automatic response rooted in childhood, whenever anyone dared to suggest his physical condition was less than perfect. He hadn’t spent countless hours working on his fitness for anybody to think otherwise. 

Joe Sr. groaned. “I want you to come home, Joe. It cannot be how it was before of course, but come home,” he pleaded, “have a little rest, let me get the satisfaction to know that at least you are comfortable while you figure things out. Go into a different field, do something else, maybe travel on the occasional assignment like you used to during college. There’s no rush to prove anything,” he reasoned. 

“And what would be the point to that existence?” The younger Macmillan scoffed, rubbing his temples. 

“What is the point to any existence!”

“You don’t understand. You don’t understand because you feel accomplished, successful, fulfilled.”

“An existential debate then, that’s what you want? We can have that. Once you are well fed and watered and taken care of. Given the all clear by Dr. Serti.” The rich man worried that recent events kick-started some old ailment of his son’s.

“Your family doctor will not poke his nose in my affairs,” Joe retorted.

“Any doctor of your choosing then. Look at you Joe. You lost weight, you’re shaking, you can barely stand up straight! What do you expect a father to do than worry! If we’re talking about a point to existence, damn it!” 

“What do you mean by that?” Joe blinked at him, somewhat confused, but subconsciously expectant. There was something there that meant something, though his muddled mind would not deal with it properly.

“Do you think success, a multibillion dollar company actually means life was worth living when your son throws it all back into your face as meaningless? Not just irrelevant and inconsequential, but a hindrance in the most important relationship a person can ever have? Children, Joe. The meaning of life is children.”

Joe furrowed his brows. He had not expected that outburst. Allusions to how inadequate he was, yes. Insinuations and quotations, perhaps anecdotes if it was about something as abstract. The idea that he could be the meaning of his father’s life had never occurred to him and how could it? All they ever had was arguments and expectations of each other. “I don’t understand…” He trailed off, defeated.

“Get in the car Joe.” The elder put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. He could not offer more comfort, but it was heartfelt enough for Joe to nod and amble slowly over to the vehicle. 

Joe Sr. was not much more energetic as he took the wheel again. The war was not won and it would never be, he knew that, but one battle went his way. He would get his son home to take care of, at least for a little while. 

The End.


End file.
